


Conflict Resolution

by codewordpumpkin



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 16:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18703213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codewordpumpkin/pseuds/codewordpumpkin
Summary: "I'm not conflicted about killing you. I'm conflicted because I can't."





	Conflict Resolution

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write this. For tptb-induced stress/anxiety relief.  
> And in this fic, Liz never made any of those confessions to Ressler and they don't suddenly become chummy best friends.

“I’m not conflicted about killing you. I’m conflicted because I can’t.”

Oh.

So this was what it had come to.

She had known he would be angry, had expected a long road ahead for him to forgive yet another unforgivable betrayal on her part. But… they had been through this dynamic before—multiple times, she was ashamed to admit—and he had forgiven her each time. Yes, he would keep his distance for a while, take some time to process, to lick his wounds and mend his heart… But he would always come back. To her. Complete with open arms and forehead kisses and ridiculous meals like fertilized duck eggs.

She wasn’t sure they would be able to come back from this.

Could she blame him?

No, she couldn’t.

Because it was one thing to risk her own life for a dream that was rightfully hers—a future with her family—but it was another thing entirely to risk the life of a man who had done nothing but love and protect her—and all for what?

For a secret that was rightfully his.

Clearing her throat, she abruptly stood up. “I understand,” she said, berating herself for managing no more than a broken whisper. “I—”

_I'm sorry for everything._

Before the tears wetting her lashes could spill down her pale cheeks, she walked out of the diner without another word.

***

“Aram, what do you have for us?”

Nodding at Cooper, Aram’s fingers began to fly across his keyboard. “Right, so, Mr. Reddington called just now with a new case and…”

_Reddington?_

_He called Aram?_

So, because he couldn’t execute her, he was excommunicating her.

Considering what he had said to her a few days prior, she really wasn’t surprised.

She wasn’t surprised—but it still hurt.

 _Turnabout was fair play, wasn_ _’t it?_

Exactly how many times had she hurt him?

_Too many._

For God’s sake, she had almost gotten him killed! And she was being punished for it—rightfully so. But when it came to her volatile relationship with Red—violence and sex balanced on the blade of a knife—she was used to being selfish:

She couldn’t help but think that she would rather he kill her than hurt her.

***

The flight to Missouri had been uncomfortable—not physically, as Red’s private jet was furnished with luxurious seats that were more comfortable than her couch, but the tension was utterly palpable in the contained space. Minus the customary _Agent Keen_ , they hadn’t spoken one word to each other. And ignorant to her latest betrayal, Ressler was understandably confused—even more so because Dembe wasn’t present. Instead of voicing his questions aloud, though, he merely raised his brows and left it at that.

Now the four of them—the fourth being Dembe’s replacement—were at a farm searching for the key to their current blacklister. Splitting up to cover more ground, Red and his associate searched the house while she and Ressler were tasked with clearing the premises—which was easier said than done, because, again, they were on a farm in Missouri. And since they had tactfully parted in opposite directions, they were each technically on their own, but she wasn’t too worried. The guy they were looking for had a violent record, granted, but he was just a petty criminal.

Just as she turned around to head back, she was struck to the ground with surprisingly brute force. A man she recognized from photos at the Post Office was now straddling her, no doubt imprinting her struggling form into the dirt beneath them. She kicked and thrashed, but was at a clear disadvantage in terms of height and weight. Not to mention, his beefy hands were clutching her throat like an excited, overeager toddler does a poor, unsuspecting puppy.

She would reach for the holster at her hip, but his thighs were locked in on either side of her, blocking her access. The best she could do was dig her nails into his forearms, to scratch and claw even as black spots began to cloud her vision.

And then she just… stopped struggling.

 _Do it_ , she thought hazily. _Just a little more_ _…_

And then it was _he_ that stopped.

_Bang._

At least, she assumed that was the sound she heard over the buzzing in her ears.

The body of her attacker jerked three times to match the three bloody holes in his chest, quickly slumping to the side. Before she could really regain her bearings, two hands that were not her own suddenly grasped her shoulders, bringing her up to a wobbly stand.

“Lizzie, are you all right?”

_Red._

He called her Lizzie. Just now. She was sure of it. And he was looking at her with such concern, it almost felt like simpler days, when she hadn’t gotten in the way of him caring for her, loving—

Oh.

There it was.

His brows straightened as his eyes blazed with a fire that she recognized as one that could leave her with far more damage than a lone scar at her wrist.

He was back to being angry with her.

“Elizabeth,” he seethed, his cheek twitching. Hers was throbbing with pain—kind of like her heart. “What were you thinking?”

Was he scolding her again? Like he had after the fiasco with the Deer Hunter?

Did that mean he still cared for her?

“What are you—” Her voice was hoarse, and it hurt to speak, so she was almost relieved when he cut her off.

“You didn’t fight back.”

“I did—”

“ _I saw you._ ”

“… I’m sorry,” she choked, swallowing air down her bruised throat.

Thawing ever so slightly, he murmured, “For what?”

“For not being strong enough.”

He shook his head. “He was a two-hundred-pound—”

“No.” This time, it was she that cut him off. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be strong enough for you.”

Frowning, he said nothing, indicating with the tilt of his head for her to elaborate.

“I tried to, I did,” she continued in a rush, desperate to defend her actions—or inactions. “But… I didn’t want—I couldn’t leave A-Agnes with a mother who died of w-weakness and shame,” she admitted, her words cracking for reasons other than her fresh assault.

His jaw fell slack, and his wide, wet eyes glared at her with such anguish and sorrow, she felt like her battered heart was breaking all over again. “Elizabeth…” he began quietly, his low voice somehow sounding more bruised than hers, “when I said I was conflicted…”

“I know,” she whispered. “If I were anyone else, you would have already killed me. But you couldn’t because of some promise you made to my mother—”

“No,” he snapped, his grip on her upper arms tightening. “My reasons have nothing to do with your mother. They haven’t for a long time.”

Slowly, she nodded, understanding. “Okay, then because of some sort of guilt you feel—”

“The only feeling that inhibits my ability to intentionally cause you harm is _love_ , Elizabeth—and not in a paternal way.”

_Love?_

_Did he just say he—_

“I love you, Elizabeth.” Gently, he cupped her sore cheek, his flesh on hers instantly soothing the hot ache. Instinctively, she leaned into his touch. “Regardless of the person I once was and the girl you once were, I love you as a man loves a woman, as who we are today.”

Perhaps they couldn't go back to where they once were.

But now, she was certain she didn't want to. 

She didn't care where they went from here. She'd follow him to the ends of the earth.

All Elizabeth Keen needed was him _—_ _whoever the hell he was._

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. I think I feel a little better now.


End file.
